As the weather warmed up in fits and starts, I decided that Orly was finally mature enough to get to use her dog door.

Past attempts to allow her to let herself in and out ran into obstacles, primarily a golden-retriever-shaped obstacle named Dotty, who was nowhere near door-ready when she was living here. Other obstacles include tendencies to bark at goings-on in the alley, a compulsion to enthusiastically greet doggy friends (Taco to the east and Cecil and Hans to the west). These have diminished but not disappeared. The habit of digging large holes in the yard, though, seems to have moved along… right around when Dotty did. It’s just not as much fun alone, apparently.

This column also encountered an unfortunate bump: It was meant to be an homage to Merle’s Door, a wonderful book about what the author learned about dog intelligence, social lives, problem solving and more, once his dog, Merle, was granted his own door. Merle developed an extensive community and social life, as his door allowed access to a rural area of large open spaces, dog-friendly neighbors, and a wonderful absence of fences and traffic. This post was also meant to link to my review of the book and encourage you all to read both. The problem? It seems that I never actually reviewed the book. Stay tuned. That link might still appear.

Unlike Merle, Orly lives in a fairly urban setting, with a lot of traffic, houses fairly close together, and, therefore, fences. Her door opens to a large fenced yard equipped with sad brown grass, many plants and flowers, a deck for sunning oneself, and a dedicated doggy digging pit. Sometimes there’s a dog pool or splash pad, too. It’s not too shabby as urban dog homes go.

In addition to all of the above, Orly’s door grants her access to her preferred water bowl (the large metal one that lives on the deck all summer), her favorite sunny spots, and the ability to come and go as she pleases, without waiting for the human (who is often sitting upstairs, working at a computer) to notice her “magic sit” requesting doorperson services.

But, as most things with Orly are, this turned out to be less than straightforward.

She does love the door. She sometimes goes in and out, over and over, just because it’s fun. I often go downstairs on a break between meetings to find her stretched out in the grass or on the deck.

But.

As I discovered when trying to get Orly to use a doorbell, Orly appreciates good service — even more than she appreciates freedom. As she sees it, my most important job is waiting on her. She never did take to the doorbell.

Besides, she likes the cachet of living in a building with a doorperson. She will stand by the door and look meaningfully at me. I might say, go ahead; you have agency. You want to go out? Go out!

Unmoved, she continues to give me that look.

Anyone with a golden (or maybe any dog) knows that look. She might nudge me, then go back to sit by the door. There is nothing wrong with her communication skills; she’s crystal clear. She knows she can let herself out; she knows how; she just prefers to be waited on.

Similarly, when she’s ready to come in, she’ll peer through the windows next to the door, press her nose against the door, sometimes even poke her nose through the dog door to give a disdainful snuff, but … right. She stays outside, waiting for me to open the door and let her in.

I’ll re-read Merle’s Door. Maybe I missed the part about teaching your dog to appreciate her privilege and freedom.